


In the streets where we don't belong

by metonymy



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-24
Updated: 2010-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:19:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metonymy/pseuds/metonymy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-finale fic; spoilers, obviously. <i>Neal didn't feel particularly lucky right then. He felt cold.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In the streets where we don't belong

His ears wouldn't stop ringing. At first he thought it was the sound of the sirens, the fire trucks and police cars and ambulances, but after they had all stopped and begun the work of putting out the fires and investigating the ringing didn't stop. But he wasn't deaf; he could hear the instructions of the EMT who was checking him over, who determined that he was in shock but physically unharmed. Peter had prevented him from running to the plane, from going after Kate one last time. Neal wasn't sure if he hated him for it.

Peter apparently still had that air of authority that let him order people around, even if he didn't have a badge and he wasn't technically giving orders. Neal couldn't hear what was being said but he could see the look on Peter's face, the set of his shoulders, the way he pointed and gestured and the shape of the words on his lips, _Fowler_ and _Kate_ and _OPR_ and _set up_ and _lucky_. Neal didn't feel particularly lucky right then. He felt cold.

He never knew, afterwards, how he had ended up in Peter's car. Obviously he'd walked, since Peter would never have carried him, but had he been directed there or had he just drifted over and sat down? Was the car open or had he jimmied the lock? Had he fastened his own seatbelt? _Why bother,_ his mind whispered. It didn't matter. Except it would matter to Peter. And to Elizabeth, whose perfume still battled for attention against Neal's cologne whenever he sat in the passenger seat. And to everybody else he'd said goodbye to in the past day. Would they even have realized what had happened if Peter hadn't stopped him and he'd gotten into the car? Would they have thought he'd really disappeared? It was devious, and part of him admired it in an abstract way, the elegance of the plan. Neal stared out the window, not registering the way the cables of the bridge sliced the river into flickering bars.

Elizabeth's perfume again, stronger, hints of spice battling with the floral scent of her shampoo, and Neal realized he was standing in the doorway of the Burkes' home, Elizabeth heading right for him. Her arms wrapped around him and it was so, so easy to just rest his face against her hair, like he used to do with - and he pulled away, barely keeping his walk from shading into a stagger as he moved to the couch. Elizabeth dragged Peter into the kitchen and Neal was sure they were talking about him, talking about the explosion, talking about how they were never letting her worry like that again. He didn't care.

A weight on his legs made him look down. Satchmo was sitting practically on top of his shined Italian shoes, big blocky head resting on his wool slacks and covering them in hair that would be there through the next three or four dry cleanings. The dog looked up at him, those big brown eyes soulful and obviously used to somebody coming home and needing comfort. Neal scratched behind Satchmo's ears, receiving a lick on his forearm for his troubles, and he realized that even the stupid dog who never learned to stay off the furniture was here to look out for him. That the white-picket-fence life he'd dreamed of was something the Burkes had already offered him, a place in their family. They probably would have invited Kate too, albeit grudgingly. And he'd been ready to throw all that away, and it was only Peter's stubbornness that meant Neal was here with Satchmo drooling onto his trousers on the Burkes' couch in their quiet little house.

Neal couldn't remember the last time he'd actually cried, not with the hot tears stinging his eyes and cheeks. He distinctly remembered _almost_ crying when he'd gotten to their old apartment and found one bottle and no Kate, hastily blinking back the tears and forcing down the hot churning feeling in his stomach, not wanting to compound the indignity of being handcuffed and shoved into a cruiser with the humiliation of being seen in tears. But now he was weeping, and he didn't care when the cushion beside him dipped slightly, or when the warm weight of Peter's broad hand came to rest on the back of his head.

"You're getting Satchmo all wet," Elizabeth said. Neal jumped in spite of himself - part of him insisted that he needed to get a hold of himself, and fast, but the rest of him was just too exhausted and didn't care. A box of tissues appeared in his peripheral vision and he took a few and mopped at his face. He looked at Elizabeth and tried to rearrange his features and give her a grateful smile, but the effort was too much. Her arm circled his waist as Peter's hand slipped down from his head to his shoulder. Bracketed by the pair of them Neal felt a little less like he was going to shake apart.


End file.
